


lost under the surface

by Mohini



Series: Coming Home [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mohini/pseuds/Mohini
Summary: It should feel stifling. It feels like home.
Series: Coming Home [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621360
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	lost under the surface

She’s halfway across the hardwood floor before she realizes what she’s doing. Little kids do this. Go running in the dark to find reassurance. She hasn’t gone looking for comfort in so long that she couldn’t even begin to identify what age she might have been when she learned not to even try. Still, her bare toes trip across the chilled floor until she comes to a halt a foot away from the bed.

“Laura?” she whispers. She’s automatically left space enough that she’ll be safe if the response is one of aggression. Not that she expects Laura to be violent, but any woman married to Clint is far from a meek little mouse.

Laura’s on her feet so quickly Nat can’t suppress the flinch and leap backward. Her hands are up and she’s rising to the balls of her feet before she can stop herself.

“Whoa, hey, you’re safe here,” the words are quiet, calm, and the hand stretching toward her is palm forward, open, and while it might not be an invitation to reach for it, the throbbing in her head and ache everywhere else sends her tripping into arms that embrace her immediately.

Her face is wet, the tears that escaped her eyes while she was losing dinner in the bathroom are back in force and she’s shaking again, tremors that she has no ability to suppress making her brain rattle.

“C’mere, s’okay love,” Laura’s whispering, walking them backward and scooting onto the bed with Nat still held against her chest. Clint’s stirring now, bleary eyes taking in his wife and his person, their person, and he eases Nat into the space between them.

It should feel stifling. But it’s warm and comfortable and she’s home. That’s been a foreign word her entire life, but here it makes sense. Home is a soft bed. Home is hands that won’t hold her down. Home is a blanket that carries the softest hint of lavender, leftover from being folded in the drawers with dried sprigs wrapped in little cloth bags – a thing she would have sworn was absolutely nothing but a fantasy but is in fact a thing Laura does.

“Babe? Grab a thermometer for me?” Laura asks over her head. The bed shifts with the change in weight distribution, and there is something thin and plastic in Nat’s mouth a moment later. She suppresses a gag and tries to wait until the little beep, but she chokes up bitter slime anyway. There’s a basin of some kind beneath her chin, probably the ubiquitous Tupperware bowl that seems to be wherever Nat is in the house.

“S’rry,” she mumbles, coughs, brings up more thick goo.

“None of that, just get it up,” Laura tells her, patting her back as she coughs hard and spits. When it’s over, Clint’s arms guide her to the pillows, and a sheet is pulled up around her shivering body.

“That’s definitely a fever,” Clint comments, and she curls into a ball, knees tight to her chest as she waits for them to toss them out of the bed and off somewhere she won’t infect them. Won’t risk infecting the baby in his crib across the room.

“Damnit, Nat, you’re not going anywhere,” the voice is gruff but soothing as she realizes that she spoke her worries aloud.

“We’ve been living out to the same bags for weeks, so I’m either immune or up next. Fucking commercial airlines. I’ve told Fury it’s stupid, you know. But does he listen to me? Of course not. Couldn’t possibly spare a jet so you don’t catch every damn bug across the entirety of Europe…”

Laura’s finger to his lips stops the rant, though Nat has to agree with him. She’s been sick after every mission lately. Probably something to do with the other not so healthy habits she still clings to, but still. He’s not wrong.

Soft fingers stroke through her hair, twisting her curls around them and barely brushing her scalp. She presses into the touch like a cat, and the tension in her body gradually eases into the earliest hints of returning to sleep.


End file.
